


Heal

by Evilsnowswan



Category: Once Upon a Time (TV), Screenplay (TV 1986)
Genre: Agoraphobia, Alternate Universe - Mental Institution, Christmas, Christmas Decorations, Christmas Fluff, F/M, Mental Health Issues, Milk, Nostelle, RSS 2017, Rumbelle Secret Santa, Rumbelle Secret Santa 2017, Snow Globes, Snow and Ice
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-12-19
Updated: 2017-12-19
Packaged: 2019-02-16 14:40:36
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 4
Words: 9,451
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/13056048
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Evilsnowswan/pseuds/Evilsnowswan
Summary: RSS 2017for autumnslioness(-dearie) ❤Summary: It’s the chilliest December in records stretching back over a hundred years and one of the coldest months ever recorded. When Nosty decides to get himself a little holiday to get out of the dreich weather, he isn’t expecting the provincial travel destination or the bonnie holiday acquaintance.[NOSTELLE]Prompt: drifting, softly, magic, sweets, ornamentBeta: winterswanderlust/KillerKueen- Nominated for Best Anyelle Fic in The Espenson Awards 2018 -





	1. Wreck of the Day

**Author's Note:**

  * For [Autumnslioness](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Autumnslioness/gifts).



The back seat of a patrol car is not comfortable. It’s not meant to be. For one thing, it is made of hard plastic or smooth vinyl, so it can be easily cleaned (the back seats always end up covered in a surprising variety of human bodily fluids). In some cars, the seat is cramped, forcing troublemakers and riff-raff to sit very low or bend their heads. To some extent, this is done to psychologically suppress suspects, to make them feel small and less inclined to start any funny business, but it also makes it tougher to gain leverage or momentum if some idiot _does_ try to launch an attack.

What protects her and her people from violent lunatics in the back seat, is a steel mesh cage and bullet proof glass – a trusted combination installed as a standard feature to keep them safe at all times – along with steel plating behind the front seats to prevent stabbings. The rear windows are reinforced with wire mesh – although they're not usually bulletproof. While strong, they can be kicked out with enough force [think: Hulk – or Rocky, maybe.]. Needless to say, the rear doors cannot be unlocked from the inside. Not that that keeps some people from trying.

Sometimes they lock in the newbies – as part of the prank; the initiation ritual for new uniforms on the beat – but when prisoners don’t get the joke, it’s just not funny. It’s annoying and pathetic. Just like tonight’s fare.

To be fair, the guy isn’t fiddling with the doors or windows, just with his seat belt. He’s a frequent flyer, a miles collector, a Gold Club member. He knows the drill. What he doesn’t know, is where they are headed, and, as they get further and further away from the city, its lights growing smaller behind them, she can tell he’s getting nervous. Even if her back’s protected against stab-wounds, she can feel the kicking. 

“Cut it out.”

“Nah.”

Dirty, with matted hair (he refused to wash or be washed) and shabby clothes, he couldn’t be further from a kid. If he were, he’d be the one sat just behind you on a long-distance flight, stir-crazy and bored out of his mind, miraculously unsupervised or ignored by his caregivers, and kicking the crap out of his tray and seat pocket.

“Listen lad, they’re doing you a solid.” Her partner doesn’t take his eyes off the road as he speaks, not even for a second. “Officer Swan and I, on the other hand, have no problem abandoning you right here, next to the road in the middle of nowhere. I’d keep that in mind, if I were you.”

Hunter is a bail bondsperson, just like her (though not as good), with great night-vision and some magic GPS signal running through his veins that gives him mad tracking and navigation skills. That’s why he’s behind the wheel tonight. Safety reasons. Common sense.

“Can ye no just say the place, ya fuckin imbecile?”

Their passenger makes a face and an obscene hand-gesture at Hunter in the mirror, and she has to suppress a laugh. “Keep complaining, dude. Remember – I could put your butt in isolation. I still could.”

“And, if you do that again, I’ll pull over and cuff you myself. Got it?”

She knows he won’t do either. Hunter is a much kinder person than he will have people believe. Soft and caring. Gentle with kids and small animals. Wearing your heart on your sleeve in their line of work gets you killed though, so it’s smart to keep it tucked away safely until you’re off duty.

“Crap!”

There’s something in the road. A deer maybe.

Tires screech. The car swerves, drifts, skids sideways, the back end sliding left. They hold their breaths, just miss a town sign, and Hunter regains control just before they hit a tree. The damn road is lined with them on either side. Tall, proud spruces. They are driving through the middle of a freaking forest. At night. In a snow storm. Brilliant.

“Oy! Ya cunts want me dead?!”

She closes her eyes, takes a breath.

“You okay back there?” When she twists in her seat to assess the situation and give the guy a quick once over to make sure he’s doing okay, he shoots her a lopsided grin, leans forward and, gripping the cage, presses his nose up against the glass.

“Just let me oot here, hen. Al walk it.”

They resume their journey at a cautious crawl.

“Sorry. Not happening.” She turns back to her partner. “What was that?”

Hunter is gripping the wheel so tightly, his knuckles are white. His mouth is straight, and he is squinting at the windshield like he needs glasses. “I… thought I saw a… wolf?” He glances at her as if to gauge his mental state from her reaction.

“A wolf?” She shakes her head. If that was a wolf, it was a massive one. More like a small bear. Did wolves get that big around here?

“Yeah…,” he says, rubbing his mouth with the back of his hand, then clenching a fist around the gearshift. “But whatever it was, we didn’t hit it. Let’s just keep going. It’s worse behind us. I thought we’d beat it to town.”

“Town, ay? Ken that way when yer no sure if ye should take a jacket or no? A was just wonderin’—”

“I’m sorry,” he says, cutting across their passenger and sparing a second to smile at her. “I didn’t want to hurt it. Think I feel worse if I kill you instead…”

She reaches out to the gearshift and touches his hand, running her fingers along his, then pulling them away.

“My fault—”

Though only December, it’s the coldest, snowiest winter she can remember. She puts on her snow boots every morning, checks the tires and tire chains on the car, but she’s gotten so used to the snow by now, to driving around in it, that she hasn’t even thought to check the weather — she hasn’t thought about road conditions or the fact that maybe this wouldn’t be the best night for them to take mentally unstable trouble up North.

“Didn’t check conditions.”

Loud, manic cackling from the backseat trickles down her spine, making her bristle and the hairs on the nape of her neck stand up.

❅❅❅

The coppers are quiet. The blonde is watching him out of the corner of her eye, like he won’t fucking notice her staring, and Nosty blows her a kiss, while her fella yanks his arms back to cuff him.

“How aboot a last meal, hen?” He laughs, licking his lips.

Her pretty face is sporting a lovely fresh bruise right underneath the eye. She’s touching her shocked fingers to it, trying not to wince. Her own fault for not having him in cuffs in the first place. A copper’s a bloody copper—even if she’s a bonnie lass.

“You got nerve, lad.” The male tugs on his arm to get him to walk — and he gives his best impression of a dumb artiodactyl, dragging his heels. “You sure about this, Archie?”

The ginger white coat just nods and smiles. Maybe he needs to check into his own fine establishment for an extended holiday. “Are those really necessary?” he asks, indicating the cuffs. He’s not talking to the coppers, but to Nosty, who snorts.

“Ask them fools, why don’t ye, doc?”

“ _Noel_ ,” Ginger says, making his frozen toes curl and his skin catch fire. Sumcunt calls him that to his face, he ends up stabbed in the fucking chest. He’s damn lucky they took his blade. “I hope you understand that you have a choice here. You—”

“Nosty.” He spits the name on the glistening ground between them, baring his teeth. “Name’s Nosty, ya ken, ginger?”

Ginger pushes his glasses up his nose, studies him for a moment. “Nosty,” he amends, over enunciating the first syllable. Something is definitely wrong with the good doctor’s head. He’s a funny man. The way stupid people are funny by accident sometimes.

Nosty grins.

“My apologies, there should always be time for proper introductions.” The guy beams at him, rubbing his hands together and blowing on them, before sheepishly holding out his right. “My name is Dr Archibald Hopper. I’m the counselor at Saint Meissa. As I understand it, Nosty, you’re in a bit of a tight spot right now and we, that is I, would like to help—”

Naming their ugly shithole of an asylum after a giant star in the constellation of Orion. What pretentious fucks they are. He’s not fooled. That’s what this is, the loonie bin, and they’re about to chuck him in it and misplace the fucking key. 

“Easy ma cunt. A umnae stayin’ long.” He nods towards the building— half polished wood, half stone foundation— and clicks his tongue in disgust. Even if he squints, this doesn’t look like your regular asylum or NHS hospital, with piss-colored walls and paper-thin gowns that leave your bum and scrotum to catch a healthy breeze of fresh air with every swinging step and everyone to get an eyeful of your crown jewels wherever you go.

This place, this glakit giant star made from natural stone and fine wood, it reminds him of other places, dark places, that Nosty would rather not be reminded of. With an upsurge of bile, his whole mouth tastes like incense; and his nose burns, and his throat burns, and his eyes sting; and he has to forcefully remove his gaze from cobblestone and drag it back across snow-covered ground to the safe haven that is his own two feet.

“Look ye fuckin' bawbag, yer aboot as useful as a tit with no nipple.” Feeling burning stripes in his palms, he opens and closes his hands a couple of times and glares up at the doctor. “Ye donnae noo shite, so I willnae bother—”

Ginger holds up a hand and copper number two stops Nosty from lunging at the man. He’s digging his own grave, Nosty knows, but what’s the harm in making the hole nice and deep while he’s at it. Maybe then they will stop digging him up time and time again.

“Emma— _Officer Swan_ , please remove Nosty’s restraints? A man in chains cannot make any conscious decisions of his own free will.”

Stunned silence, nobody moves for a beat. Then the coppers start muttering between themselves, shuffling their feet, rummaging in their uniform jackets for nothing in particular.

Finally, the blonde — Emma — steps behind him and turns him round to face her in one rough move. “Listen, crazypants, any funny business, anything at all, and I’ll make sure you rot in isolation. Understood?”

“Emma,” He leans into the space between them — closing it, pressing up against her — and watches her swallow hard. “What a lovely name.” He can smell her; all the clean and sweet vanilla-and-cinnamon-scent of her, and her fear, too. Fear has a sweaty, earthy smell to it that clings to people like it does to street dogs. “Hug ma rod, _Em-ma_.”

Her breath is hot on his face as she lets it out in a livid gasp. Before he can add anything, relish the feeling, he’s pulled back by the collar, taken by the scruff of the neck like a bad pupper, and fully prepared to find himself face-down in the warm yellow snow to his feet any second now.

“Enough, Nost.” The male copper says, setting him back on his feet. “Don’t you get it,” he whispers so low his burd and Ginger can’t hear. “It’s this place or cuffs and the clink. Your choice, really, but I thought you were smarter than this.”

He’s talking to him like they’re pals, like he’s part of the squad, making Nosty lose his metaphorical footing for just a moment. Does he mind the fucker from somewhere? He narrows his eyes, the cuffs click, he rubs his wrists.

“Wonderful!” Ginger says like fuck all happened in the past few minutes. “So I take it you are ready to come inside now?”


	2. The Bird and the Stray

They have given him a toothbrush, a small tube of toothpaste, and a bar of soap. Running his left hand along the rough wall and his right hand along the old wood railing, he slowly walks up the chipped and cracked stairs after a very chipper Ginger. There are windows, but they are so narrow that any light filtering down from above is quickly swallowed by the thick and dusty semi-darkness. A musty smell hangs in the damp air, mixed with the pungent odor of the father, the son, and the Holy Spirit.

When they reach the top of the stairs, Nosty’s head is off to explode — and he opens his mouth to tell the good man to stick his cheerful demeanour and chitchat where the sun don’t shine and just show him where he’s supposed to kip for the night, when he notices the lovely piece of talent lingering in a doorway like a painting in its frame. She’s petite; long, brown hair pulled back and tied with a bow, beautiful blue eyes, and very rosy cheeks. As they approach, the lassie’s smile wavers a little—like a feather caught on a blackberry bush—and she looks everywhere but at his eyes. Her teeth sink down on her bottom lip, making that cupid's bow pop even more and his gaze hastily drop to her legs. She’s wearing tights and is lifting one foot out of her cosy, slipper style boots like a flamingo, rubbing it against the back of her resting leg. This one—she’s a funny little burd, isn’t she?

“Isabelle, this is Nosty— Nosty, meet Isabelle.”

“Hi. It’s just Belle. Nice to meet you.”

Ginger has them shake hands, even though Nosty can tell it makes _just-Belle_ uncomfortable. And really, who can blame her? He reeks of _eau de caniveau_ —cold despair, stale beer, and fresh piss—and, while he’s used to it by now, it must cost the sweet girlie every ounce of self-control not to wrinkle her cute button nose at him or have her lips curl back over her perfect white teeth in disgust.

“We usually do co-ed—” Ginger explains, a hint of nerves in his voice—“and have decided not to make an exception here.” He pauses to braid his fingers together and doesn’t resume speaking until he’s braided and unbraided them twice. He clears his throat. “While you are staying with us, Belle will be your roommate… your… buddy, which means… she’ll be showing you the ropes.—” He looks at him imploringly over the rim of his thick glasses. “And you’re going to be a gentleman about it and let the lady lead, yes, Nosty?”

“Wit doye no trust me or suhin?” Nosty cocks his head, his ears ringing with a thousand reasons why he shouldn’t; why the good doctor has clearly lost his fucking mind. Who in the world would let a flea-bitten stray like him loose on a wee burd like her? How can he trust him with her when Nosty can’t even be trusted with himself?

Before he can say anything more, a small warm hand slips into his and he almost jumps back in surprise. “We’ll be just fine, Dr Hopper. Won’t we, Nosty?”

He attempts a smile — which probably gets stuck somewhere between psychopath and serial killer, but the lassie takes it in her stride and smiles back bravely, her fingers quickly squeezing his before she lets her hand drop to her side. Donnert, he has to fight the urge to lift his hand to his face and stare at it in disbelief.

“Don’t let me hear any complaints, Nosty.” Ginger waggles a finger in his face, but ruins the effect by winking. It’s insane how carefree he is—no restrains, no pills, no locked doors. In fact, none of the rooms on this floor seem to have any doors. It’s just a long corridor of doorways.

“Wonderful!” He puts his hands together. “I’ll leave you to it then. Get settled, have a good night, and I’ll be seeing the two of you for breakfast tomorrow.” This time he’s not fixing him but Belle, who ducks her head a little and presses her lips together, but then nods.

“Good Night, Dr Hopper.”

“Nosty, Belle—” He tips an imaginary hat to them and turns on his heels before putting it firmly back on his head; whistling a happy tune as he descends the stairs, taking two steps at a time. Apparently, everyone is a little mad here. Nosty shrugs.

“You coming?”

He could take the toothbrush, toothpaste, and soap, and make it back downstairs and out of the door before anyone catches him. He could make a run for it and be a free man again. Maybe he could go back to the city; get back to the squad. But then again, it’s December and freezing balls out, and so far, this one might yet turn out to be one of his better holidays. He can risk spending one night in this place and re-evaluate in the morning, can’t he? Yes, he could take the toothbrush, toothpaste, and soap, and run, but watching the wee burd nervously hop about in the doorway, waiting, Nosty decides not to. He’ll stay. For now.

“Shoes… please.”

The room, it smells like the holidays—fruity, spicy, warm. As he bends down to untie his shoelaces and wondering why, the scent wraps around him like a soft blanket. There are two beds, pushed against opposite walls. White sheets, white pillows, white blankets. Hers is sitting right next to the window like a window bench. The heavy white curtains are partially drawn, but there seem to be no bars on the window. It’s probably one of those that only open with a small key. He wonders who has it.

On her side of the room, there are books everywhere. The small shelf by the head of her bed isn’t enough to hold them all. Not even close. Instead, they have sneaked their way into the open space, crawled across the floor like a carpet of moss made from print and paper, and grown into a weird sort of maze that the girlie navigates with ease and elegance before plopping down on her bed and smoothing down the covers.

His side of the room is bare, empty; a folded towel on the pillow the only personal item hinting at another occupant in the room. And yet, even that towel isn’t truly his. With a sigh, he steps out of his muddy, soaked boots and crosses over to the empty shelf by his bed, running his hands over the worn wood. It’s clean—no fresh layer of dust covering his skin—but up close, smells of age and cheap polish.

“What are you doing?”

He’s forgotten about her; about her being in the room, watching him stick his head in a bookshelf like a dumb dog getting caught in a garden fence. Ears hot, he draws back and bumps his head.

“Ach! Fuck me!”

“Oh! I’m so sorry! I didn’t mean to startle you! — Are you alright?”

A hand pressed to the smarting spot, he opens his mouth to tell her to leave him the fuck alone, but closes it again when something on the bottom shelf catches his eye. Squatting down, he reaches for it, holding it up to his face to see better.

It’s a snow globe. New York City. The Twin Towers and a train in a glass bubble with artificial snow. He doesn’t have to turn it over to know it plays ‘ _New York, New York_ ’ when wound up.

“Yours?” He turns to the girlie to find her staring at his hands, transfixed, her eyes wide and lips pressed into a shocked colorless line. Nosty tightens his grip on the toy reflexively, then carefully cradles the ugly thing in his arms and takes a step towards her.

Before he can take another, she’s leapt up from the bed and zig-zagged around her books like a snow hare to meet him at the imaginary border between their respective sides of the room.

“Here ye go, hen. One snow globe. Mint condition.”

That coaxes a soft smile from her, like coaxing tender timbres from a bagpipe. It’s all about timing. And proper breathing. The burd needs to breathe or she’s going to drop from the sky like a shot sparrow.

“T-Thank you,” she breathes, her fingers brushing his in the exchange.

She’s not looking at him, but at his wrists. They’re exposed now, sticking out of his jacket sleeves like twigs, weak and bony, the gauze around them no longer antiseptic-white but grey with rusty brown patches. “It’s… just… thank you.”

He nods. Their eyes meet and there is something familiar in hers that he cannot quite place before the connection is lost. 

“Did you know that snow globes, like most things, were invented by accident?” She keeps right on talking as she carries the sphere to her bed and draws back the curtains, revealing her impressive collection on the window board. _New York_ gets a spot in between what looks like the _Eiffel Tower_ and _London Bridge_ in miniature. “In the late 19th century Austrian Erwin Perzy, a producer of surgical instruments, invented the snow globe while trying to develop an extra bright light source for surgical lamps. To increase light he used water— in a glass container— and included tiny reflective particles. When moving the container and seeing the particles fall, he thought they looked like snow— so he made a snow globe with the basilica of Mariazell as a model in it and patented the idea.”

A smart man that Erwin Perzy. Going by her collection alone, his great-great-grandchildren must be rolling in the dough somewhere right about now, Scrooge McDuck style. “That so?”

She glances at him over her shoulder and sits back on her heels, looking down at the glittering globes like they are a toy store display on Christmas Eve. “I… I just think they’re pretty. That’s all. The snow, it’s nice.”

Normally he would have told her that, quite fucking frankly, snow isn’t nice, or pretty. It’s wet, and cold, and a bloody nuisance, but she looks so small, so fragile, so… crestfallen, bent over her small treasures as if in prayer, that Nosty doesn’t have the heart to tell her just how fucking wrong she is.

“I know real snow isn’t made from resin, obviously,” she says, turning around on the bed and rolling her eyes. She tugs her legs in under her body and gently shakes the globe in her hands, before holding it flush against her middle. They watch the glitter fall on a green tree topped with a gold star, a multi-colored Christmas train, and a wee lass holding a toy. The base is a merry Santa-red, accented with gold, green, and white details. “It winds up and plays _The Nutcracker Theme_. It’s my favorite.”

He shakes his head. “Ye dinnae ken whit yer talkin aboot.”

The way she says ‘ _my_ ’ and draws out her vowels— Hers is no accent he’s used to hearing every day, but also not one he’s likely to forget very soon. Something has blurred its features quite a bit, watered them down, and made her voice go fuzzy at the edges, so it’s hard to tell, but she’s definitely not from around here.

“Ye’v ne’er touchit snaw!” he blurts out, pointing a triumphant finger at her, and the burd gasps, ruffling her feathers and puffing them up in mute indignation.

“And you—” She nibbles her bottom lip. It's one of her signature mannerisms. Nosty has learned to pay close attention to those. It means she has something to say but is biting back the words. “You’re rude! And… and… dirty!” She claps a hand over her mouth, immediately mumbling an apology and blushing deeply over her cheeks and temples, but he just waves the stammering and stuttering away and throws his head back, barking a hearty laugh.

“Aha. I like that ye’v still got bite, hen. Yer richt, av better use th’ lavvie—” He looks around towards the dark hallway without asking the question, and she comes to his aid at once: 

“You can’t miss it. It’s the only room with a door.” A grin tugs at the corners of her mouth. “Doesn’t lock though. Closed door means occupied. You just knock if it’s urgent.” Her eyes drop to his crotch, and he quickly picks up the bath towel from the pillow and covers his lap to hide the stains on his kilt. “There’s a utility room in the basement. Washer and dryer— but you need special permission to use it outside of laundry day. You could ask Dr Hopper or one of the nurses tomorrow, if you— I mean, it’s only Tuesday and laundry’s Saturday.”

She’s biting her lip again, briefly; then the words leave her in a breathless rush. “You know, like the Vikings. They bathed once a week. That’s why they call it ‘ _Lördag_ ’ in Sweden— that’s _bath-day_ —rather than having the day be named after the planet Saturn, like the Romans did. Uh—” She gestures to a linen basket sitting next to the door. “Sorry. We take it down Friday after dinner. Whoever has laundry duty that week will be done with it by Sunday and let everyone know when to come and collect their baskets. You don’t want Hatter to do your things, though. Everything will come back the wrong color and at least one or two sizes too small or too big.” She flaps her arms and laughs blushing once again, as though speaking even the slightest bit ill of another person has her heart beat at an uneasy rhythm. “I think it’s his turn this week. Chore wheel is in the kitchen, by the way.” She lifts one shoulder, lets it drop. “We’re on breakfast duty tomorrow. You know—set the table, make tea, get the milk from the milk box—”

“The milk box—?” He shakes his head in disbelief, stuffing the soap, toothbrush and paste deeper into his jacket pocket with his free hand.

“Oh, yeah. We get it delivered every morning. Small town, you know. Cows, milkmen, stores closed more than they’re open; church packed with people on Sundays.” She shudders, and Nosty feels the sudden chilly gust too. The portable heater buzzing away merrily in the corner doesn’t do squat to supplement the inadequate heating situation. What are they playing at anyway, no doors—?! He’s used to the cold, but wee things like _just-Belle_ will catch their death in this terrible draught—with no doors to lock the warm air in and keep the rooms nice and toasty.

“Canny wait.”

“Oh, get out, you!” She laughs, pointing him out of the room. When he’s stepped out into the hall, she calls after him: “And don’t forget to wash behind your ears, Nosty!”, and dissolves into a proper fit of the giggles like a wee chick. He’s going to have to have a word with the cheeky young thing when he gets back.

Smiling to himself, Nosty pads down the silent corridor, looking left and right in search of the one room with a damn door. He can hear other people’s muffled voices and laughter from mostly dark rooms as he passes them, but nobody pokes their head out to peek at the newbie or say hello, for which he feels surprisingly grateful. He’s not good with new people. And he’s pretty sure this floor is mostly girls.

When he returns to the room a little while later, starkers under his big towel, theirs is the only room that has its lights on and its residents still awake. He looks about the room for a clock, but there is none. Not even an ancient alarm clock built into the headboard or bedside table. How are they supposed to get up in time to fetch the sodding milk then? With a huff he sits down on his bed, ready to slide under the covers, when he notices a soft lump under his bum and scoots over to identify it as a neatly folded pile of clothes. Boxers, tracksuit trousers, and a washed-out T-shirt resembling a circus tent.

Surprised, he looks at Belle, who is watching him over the top of the book she’s balancing on her thighs and pretending to be very engrossed in.

“Spares,” she mumbles into her book, dropping her eyes onto the page she’s currently not reading. “Sorry. There wasn’t much to choose from.”

He stares at the hand-me-downs until his vision starts to blur and he has to blink, then gets up wordlessly and, after a moment’s hesitation, dumps his own shirt and kilt in the linen basket. If that bloke—Hatter— ruins his kilt, at least he’ll have an excuse to give them a good reason to put him back out on the streets, before they get too comfortable around him and start asking questions. Ginger, for one, looks like a man who loves asking dumb shit until someone puts an end to it and a fist through his teeth. Nosty doesn’t want to have to be that guy, but he will be  if the nosy cunt isn’t careful.

“This floor,” he says, putting on the trousers and shirt, but ditching the boxers. “Lassies.” He tucks himself away, smirking as he catches the wee burd hastily averting her gaze. Not having enough wriggling room for his balls to be comfortable is bad enough, he’s not going to throw on another man’s underthings too, no matter what. Who knows where the fuckers been? Nah, he better not risk it.

“Uh-huh.” Her eyes are glued to her book. “The men are upstairs.” She points at the ceiling, following her finger with her eyes, instead of meeting his. “We only got four. That’s not counting—”

“A um a man,” he remarks, bristling a little at the insinuation, and puts a hand on his chest.

She sucks in her bottom lip, color rising in her cheeks, and he almost feels better about himself, when his treacherous stomach gives an all-mighty rumble and ruins the moment.

She laughs. “And you’re hungry!”

She marks her spot and puts down the book on the nearest pile, stretches her legs, and slides to the edge of her bed on her knees. A finger to her lips, she listens intently, then flops down onto her belly and reaches for— a loose floorboard under the bed.

Contraband? He’s underestimated her.

“We’re not supposed to have food in the room,” she says, producing a biscuit tin and giggling like a naughty schoolgirl. “But what’s a girl to do when she gets the munchies for something sweet and sugary in the middle of the night? Kitchen’s locked overnight.” She cranes her neck to glance at the dark doorway one last time, then pushes to sitting, tin box in lap and face flushed.

It’s that round, distinctive royal blue tin, and he’s mighty surprised to find it actually contain Danish butter cookies when she cracks open the lid with a telltale metallic pop. She swings her legs off the bed to cross into foreign territory and sits down cross-legged on the floor, offering him a cookie before snatching one for herself and cramming the thing into her mouth whole.

He takes a tentative bite, showering himself in crumbs, and swallows. “No sewing kit.”

She grins up at him. “Nope. No needles allowed in this house. And no running with scissors.”

“Yer trading contraband, _Isabelle_.” He frowns at her, making her laugh and almost choke on her cookie. “Can an ol’ fucker bum a smoke from ye too, hen? Or can ya just go inty the shop for sweeties?”

She narrows her eyes, crosses her arms in front of her chest. “Why certainly, good sir, you may indeed have a cigarette this lovely evening, but you just accused this fine lady of engaging in illegal trade, so…”

She looks at him expectantly, and he makes a show of turning his pockets inside out and looking absolutely shocked out of his wits when he comes away empty and there’s no coins to be clawed off the sheets and fondled awkwardly into his sticky palms. “Ah left mah wallet at the hoose,” he says, toying with the idea of paying in kind and just planting one on her; of licking the sweet cookie crumbs clean off those smirking lips. Before he can act on the impulse however, his brain has, miraculously, finished forming words, and he tells her that he’ll send her one of those snow globes she loves so much once this lovely cruise comes to an end and he’s back in the city.

It makes her cry; big fat salty tears running down her face and splashing onto butter cookies, paper, and tin. She’s a silent crier, and he doesn’t know what to do; doesn’t know if he should reach out and touch her arm or nah; if he should say something or just keep his fucking gob shut. He probably should’ve kissed her and been done with it, instead of running his bloody mouth.

Before he can decide to do just that, she’s gotten to her feet again and gone into her secret stash of goodies under the floorboard, returning with a pack of smokes. They’re still wrapped in cellophane. She sniffles and smiles, and he grabs her hand and holds it for just a moment too long as the pack slides from hers into his.

“Smoke detectors,” Her voice is wet and so is her face. She sniffles again, runs a hand over her eyes, and clears her throat; then attempts a mischievous grin— failing royally and landing on sad smile instead. “They work. Your only chance is the milkman.” 


	3. No Milk Today

Remember the days when mornings were associated with the clinking of glass bottles, as the friendly milkman set them down in the milk box? Yeah, Nosty doesn’t either. And it would be impossible to hear any bottle-clinking with the lassies in the kitchen hitting out with the absolute worst patter ever and making his ears bleed, anyway. There’s only one little burd that’s not chirping away merrily this shite morning, and that’s Belle.

She has barely said three words to him all morning, and he’s wondering whether or not to bring up the contraband and the snow globes again, just to make her speak, but instead, he’s been standing here watching her watch the front door for the better part of the last twenty five minutes or so, and come to the conclusion that maybe, she’s got a phobia for doors. That would explain why there are none in this place—except for the bathroom door, the door leading from the kitchen down into the basement, and, of course, the fucking front door—which they have been studying in great detail for far too long entirely now, like art students to be quizzed on the bloody grain, or asked to calculate the damn chopped-up tree-corpse’s age by the remaining growth rings.

He shuffles his feet and pats down his jacket; just to remind himself that the pack of smokes is still there, hidden in the inner lining—he’s not that daft—and that yesterday actually happened, and that he’s out in the sticks somewhere, in a stinking coastal town called Storybrooke, stuck with a roommate who’s got a weird fixation on doors.

Nosty runs a hand over his mouth.

“Yer gettin’ the cow juice or nah? Me cornflakes are bone dry.”

No answer.

“Hen, how aboot ye just let me…” He steps around her, puts his hand on hers—very gently—and pulls on the doorknob, breathing a sigh of relief when it swings open to reveal the front porch, the snow-covered lawn, and the parking spaces off to the side of the road a little further down the hill, barely visible in the heavy morning fog. And, who would have thought, there’s the fucking milk, six glass bottles filled to the brim with icy cold cow juice! Excellent.

Pleased with himself, Nosty turns to look at Belle— Belle, who’s been holding onto that crate with the empty bottles all morning like a mother hen guarding her chicks, and who must surely be glad to finally be rid of that pesky responsibility— but, if she’s feeling glad breakfast duty is almost complete, the burd doesn’t look it.

She’s not looking at him, or the milk, or even the damn door. She’s staring straight ahead into the cold blue morning, seeing absolutely nothing and shivering like she’s standing in the door starkers— when he’s seen her bundle up in two sweaters and a cardigan before they came down here; sometime that feels like hours ago. Or maybe _that’s_ it, and she’s too hot in all the extra wool? Her cheeks sure look a little flushed and sweaty— even if the rest of her face is paler than the milk still sitting two steps away, in a box on the porch, waiting innocently to be swapped out and carried inside in the crate that Belle clutches to her middle like it’s a shield and she’s about to face a dragon.

The burd looks terrified.

That look on her face, he’s seen it before, but it’s way worse than last night; back when he thought she was a dead bird dropping from the sky from lack of oxygen in her lungs. If he didn’t know any better, Nosty would say, innocent, cookie-smuggling Belle’s _on_ something, or _has been_ on something; something bad; something that’s been messed with, tampered with; something that’s been tainted; and the poor wee lass is coming down from it hard, crashing, cold turkey.

He touches her arm, the crate crashes to the floor, bottles smash into a thousand sharp smithereens; and she looks at him for a breathless second, eyes wide and dark like disused underground tunnels, then jerks away, presses a hand over her mouth to stifle the scream, or hold in the vomit, or whatever it is you do in these kind of situations, and dashes off upstairs with a muffled sob, leaving him standing in the middle of the biggest fucking mess he could have possibly been left standing in on his first morning.

And, of fucking course, Ginger chooses that moment to come bouncing up the stone steps and to appear in the front door a second later.

“Good morning, Nosty,” he says before Nosty has the chance to say or do anything, closing his umbrella and slipping it into the umbrella stand. Then, he bends down and picks up the milk box, twisting it so it comes loose and can be carried into the house. “Better get everyone their 3.4% protein, 3.6% fat, 4.6% lactose, and 0.7% minerals.” He smiles at him. “That’s the composition, on average, of 100 grams of your regular cow’s milk— which also supplies the body with 66 kcal of energy. I find that immensely fascinating. Don’t you find it fascinating, Nosty? To figure out what things in the universe are made of? Marvellous.”

Stepping over glass shards like it’s something the fucker does for a living; like he’s floating a few inches above the ground or walking on water on a regular basis, Ginger proceeds into the kitchen without any further ado, seemingly oblivious to the chaos. “Nosty? Are you coming to the table? We can’t start until everyone’s here, seated and ready.”

Bewildered, Nosty shuts the front door (crunching some glass in the process) and shuffles into the kitchen after the crazy doctor (— but not before stopping to stoop down and scoop up a nice-looking milk bottle-piece, slipping it into his jacket, right next to the smokes.)

“You look how I feel, darling,” a burd with a strong Irish accent tells him when he enters the kitchen. Her hair is dyed two colors—part white, part black— and he instantly can’t stand her guts.

“Ye better feel fantastic then, ya cheeky boot.”

He counts at least seven shades of purple on her face, before Ginger steps in with a cheery “Now Carla, Nosty—since you haven’t been with us that long, you don’t know this, but we usually use the time at the breakfast table as either a time of silent mindfulness, or positive affirmation. Whichever you choose, negativity has no place at the table.”— and the boot, Carla, mimes vomiting into her cereal bowl.

While everyone busies themselves with bread and butter, cereal and juice, Nosty watches Ginger. He nods, and smiles, and listens, but doesn’t do any of the talking. He just makes sure everyone at the table gets a turn to speak—should they want one— and their 3.4% protein, 3.6% fat, 4.6% lactose, and 0.7% minerals. Everyone, except Belle.

“Doc, what aboot—”

“No negativity at the breakfast table, Nosty,” Ginger says again, not unkindly. Still, it makes him want to throw some fucking punches and add in sharp cutlery for good measure, but everything on the table right now is blunt, stupid plastic. “We’ll talk later.” He checks his wristwatch. “In two hours and fifteen minutes to be exact, my office, three doors down from the kitchen.— Well, three doorways. Same difference, isn’t it?”

He knows at least one wee burd who’d agree to disagree with that statement.   

❅❅❅

She’s built herself a fucking tower. A tower made from books, big enough to hide herself inside it. Or maybe it’s supposed to be an igloo. Nosty hesitates in the door, his pockets heavy with fruit, slices of toast, and tiny packets of butter and jam (what did they expect, letting a professional pickpocket into the house?). He might not be an honorable man by anyone’s standards, but he is a man who pays his debts—even if that debt is in cookies rather than Quid. 

“Architect, interesting.”

She doesn’t answer, but there’s some shuffling.

“Ye aw richt, hen?”

Her mouth says yes, but her tone says no. She’s crying again, or crying still.

Nosty sits down on the floor, a little away from her strange construction—though he has seen stranger. Some people get really creative with the cardboard. Without her books scattered everywhere it’s harder to tell where his ends and hers begins, but he’ll give her some space. He empties his pockets, producing an apple, two oranges, and slices of toast wrapped in paper towels—he’s not a complete savage—and starts buttering toast in silence.

When he’s done cutting sandwiches in halves and slicing the apple in quarters—it takes a while to accomplish that feat with the fucking plastic knife that might as well be a bloody teaspoon—and moves onto the first orange, breaking the skin with his thumbnail, the wee burd finally sticks her head round her birdhouse walls to look. Her face is puffy and her eyes rimmed with red. She’s clutching a tissue.

“What are you doing?”

“Peelin’ fruit. You?”

A half-smile. “Why?”

“Breakfast.” He concentrates on his hands, pretending not to notice her crawling out of her hiding space to see better, eying the sandwiches and apple slices sitting on paper towels on the floor.

“You just had breakfast.”

“Aye.” He slides the peeled orange a little towards her, breathing in the scent. He’s always liked oranges. Handy little fruit, sturdy. Good for throwing at coppers too. Nosty grins at a memory, cutting his train of thought short before it can go places and make him sad. “Yer joinin’ me, hen?”

She bites her lip, hesitates, then moves to sit opposite, resting lightly on her heels like a young lady from a respectable family. He should have snatched more paper towels, maybe a fine china teacup.

“Sorry about earlier.”

He holds out an apple slice and she takes it. “Tis’ fine.”

They eat in silence.

“Ye got fondled by the milkman that one time too many and ne’er telt a cunt?”

“What?!— Nosty! No!” She shakes her head vigorously, but she’s smiling and her cheeks are rosy again. “No, no, no. Why would you even think—?” She draws a breath, drops her shoulders, looks at the unfinished apple piece in her hand. When she looks back again, her expression is solemn, and Nosty quickly stops chewing and swallows, putting the rest of his orange down in his lap.

“It’s the porch,” she says quietly, fidgeting with her apple. “I got trouble… with the porch.”

Studying her face, he tilts his head to one side, then the other, then back again, trying to figure out if she’s taking the mickey out of him, or if there’s a hidden meaning behind her words that he just doesn’t grasp. Burds tweet in tongues sometimes.

“Ah.”

She smiles softly. “I’m… I can’t go outside.”

“Ye canny—?”

“Outside. I don’t do ‘outside’—” She makes quotation marks around the word with her fingers. “Outside and I— we don’t mix. I’m… agoraphobic.”

“Ag-uh-ruh-wit nah?”

“I don’t… leave the house.” She shakes her head. “I used to, but… it’s not just travelling on the bus anymore, or the crowds Christmas shopping at the mall, you know. I just…” She shudders and rubs her arms, wrapping them tightly around herself. “You must think I’m crazy. It’s… silly, I know. I always wanted to see the world and now—” Her voice has grown smaller and smaller and, in that moment, dies completely and suddenly, leaving them to sit in uneasy silence.

“World’s a fucking shithole. Wantin’ a roof o’er yer head. Ah canny see nuttin wrong wi that.”

She looks at him, teary-eyed. “Thank you. No, really, Nosty. You’re being so nice to me. Kind. It means a lot.” She reaches out to cover his hand with hers, takes a steadying breath. “Being housebound— I mean, I’ve always been more of a homebody. Every time I… I just got that small voice in my head, telling me I had better stick to my books.” She scoffs and throws her arms up in frustration, knocking down a load-bearing wall of her superb edifice; and he has to leap forward and catch some of the debris before it buries her alive.

“Books. Dangerous.” He grunts, still shielding her, though an estimate of 3,500 cubic feet of paper and ink has already crashed into the valley and decimated their second breakfast beyond hope.

Belle—

She’s in his arms, resting her head against his chest; so close he can hear her breathing hitch. He wants to tell her that he’s got a voice of his own; a loud and angry voice constantly roaring in his ears and chest, and that, right now, it’s gone completely still and utterly quiet. It’s the most curious sensation in the world.

“Oops.” Her giggling vibrates against his skin, tickling his heart, and he has got to smile too. “Sorry. Again. And thank you. Again.” She puts a hand on his chest and some distance between them, but their legs are still touching. “Oh wow. What a mess.”

“Seen worse,” He leans back on his hands, careful not to ruin any of her books.

“Nosty?” She’s assaulting her bottom lip again, picking up a book at random and putting it down the next second. “If you could be anywhere in the world right now, where would you be?”

He looks at her, his mind completely blank but for how that pretty shade of pink travelling from her chest to her cheeks is turning her into the most beautiful thing he’s ever seen in his life. He shrugs.

She tugs her hair behind her ear. “I’d love to be in New York— at Rockefeller Plaza, watching the tree be lit for the first time.” There’s a spark in her eyes, a light, and something deep in his chest starts to purr, watching it grow brighter and brighter. If he could be anywhere in the world right now, do anything, he’d be right fucking here. With her. Watching her face light up as she launches into a detailed description of a bloody Christmas tree.

“Let’s make one!” She’s saying, dragging him to his feet. “They won’t let us put up a real tree in here, but we can make one!” 

Before he knows what he’s doing or why he’s doing it, Nosty finds himself sorting books by color and size and stacking them in neat piles, handing her a ‘large green’ or ‘medium red’ whenever she asks for it.

They’re building a tree. A fucking Christmas tree made from books—complete with red candles, colorful ornaments, and silver and gold tinsel. It’s the best Christmas tree he’s ever had. In fact, it’s his first.


	4. Snow Angel

The wee burd, she’s perky today. Nosty listens to her chatter aboot fairy lights 'n'whatnot and, when she starts to hum a song, quietly, ever so quietly, under her breath, he opens his eyes and turns to look at her. She’s on the other bed, across the room, balancing on her toes like one of those tiny, underfed, bony things jumping around in glittering costumes; trying to tie a fat cherub to the curtain track. She cannae reach high enough.

“Gawn giese fuckin peace,” he grumbles, but it just makes her laugh.

“Sorry?” The burd glances back at him over her shoulder. She’s built like a real bird, stumps poking up out her back like amputated angel’s wings. She’s been missing breakfast more often than not this past week, but they’re working on it.

He shakes his head. “Fuck ye dain?”

“Nosty. Language!” Belle looks at him sternly. He waves a lazy hand at her. “You’re _impossible_.”

“Naw, ah umnae. Ye tae noisy fur a wee burd, hen.”

She narrows her eyes. “You know, you could help.”

“Gonnae no’ dae that.”

She rolls her pretty eyes at him, pouts with that pretty mouth, and it’s almost enough to drive him off the bed and across the room to lend a hand. Almost.

“Oh! Oh, look!” She twirls around, the movement sending out ripples across the fresh, snowy white sheets. It reminds him of the wee dancing lass in the snow globe. The one with the toy. “Nosty! It’s snowing!”

“Aye.” He can see the snow fall outside the window, but doesn’t share her excitement. Then again, it’s not him who has never slipped on icy roads or stomped through sodding slush for so long his frozen toes and fingers all but died and fell right off.

“Everyone’s asleep! They’re missing it!” For some reason the thought seems to upset her. She bites her lip. “Nosty?—Will you go get the milk with me?”

It’s not their turn and it’s not what she’s asking. With a grunt, he pushes to sitting and reaches for his jacket on the floor to shrug it on. “Milk. Aye.”

She has stopped bouncing on her toes and is following his every move with her eyes, her hands and lips pressed tightly together. If she were a wind-up toy, she’d be making a bloody high-pitched buzzing noise right about now, and after a minute or two, he’d pick her up and throw her through the window. He cannae stand the fucking noises toys make; or weans—or weans with toys.

He puts on his boots, lacing them up slowly. She’s sat down, legs dangling and kicking, feet tapping the floorboards. Her chest rises and falls; rises and falls; heaving so fast, he can almost hear her heart drum and rattle on its cage.

“Wit, ye comin’ or naw?”

She is. Slowly, hesitantly, her soft thuds on the stairs drowned out by his confident strides. Then they’re back standing side by side, staring at the front door once more.

A couple minutes tick by (Nosty counts the seconds in his head).

When he reaches for the knob, her hand on his arm stops him, and she shakes her head. “Wait—” She draws a deep breath, lets it out. “My turn.”

The door is open. This time she doesn’t bolt. She widens her stance, squares her shoulders, and stares the outside right in the face. The snowfall is too heavy to see if anything’s staring back. As long as she focuses on the snow, she’ll be fine.

“It’s… beautiful?” She makes it sound like a question. Her hand finds his and he lets her lace their fingers together. He’s going to let her pretend he’s got a magic hawn—two, if it helps. Cold wind whirls the snowflakes around and into their faces. “ _Wet_.”  

Somecunt is shaking the globe too fucking hard, making the wee burd on his arm tremble with it. She reaches out her other hand, withdraws, tries again, and Nosty’s struck by a sudden idea. One that will turn his baws blue under his kilt.

“Ye has tae touch it,” he tells her. “Isnae real.”

Belle looks round at him. “W-What?”

“Isnae real.”

Her brow furrows. She turns to look at the snow, at his face, and back at the snow again; then frowns. “It’s… not...” She takes an involuntary step forward, her toes just shy of crossing the threshold.    

“—Nosty!” She’s having second thoughts, but Nosty’s having none of it. In one swift move, he scoops her up into his arms and steps out onto the porch.

“Snow globe, hen. Giant fuckin’ snow globe.” He tugs her closer, wrapping his open jacket around them both. The cold bites his legs, nibbles at his hands, and claws at his nose; the wind rushing in his ears is making them ring.

They are quiet for a few minutes—maybe not that long. It’s bloody hard to judge time with everything so tense and freezing. Maybe he’s fucked up. Maybe ootside was a really bad idea. Maybe he should bring her back ben the hoose.

There is a metallic ringing as a lorry passes by on the street.

“W-hat’s that noise?” She’s hiding her face in his shirt, keeping her eyes firmly shut. He feels every quivering bone in her body, her spine pressing into his arm as she curls into a ball like a sleepy hedgehog. She’s nearly weightless—hollow bird bones and all—but her wings are weak—too weak to fly. He can feel them protest every time she forces them flush against her body, too afraid to let them spread out—in fear of finding them broken.

“Tire chains.”

The hand on her back starts rubbing slow circles without him having telt the fucker so, but she doesn’t seem to mind. He’s got a precious porcelain angel in his arms, her long hair laced with fern frost and dancing on the wind, and—

“Tire chains,” she repeats slowly. She doesn’t sound scared. But she is being so awfully quiet.

—what if he drops her, hurts her, breaks her?

“It's aw richt, hen,” he whispers, careful not to chip her cold skin with his hot lips. “Wee parts a’ movin’. The bin lorry, and the gritting lorry, and the coal lorry, and the cattle lorry, and—” He slowly turns them around in a circle.

Her eyelids flutter and her mouth twitches.

“Stick yer tongue oot,” he says, watching the slow smile spread on her face like sunrise. “Go on.”

“What?—Why?”

“ _Isabelle_ , doye no trust me?”

A nervous giggle, nose scrunched up and eyes squeezed shut, and then—to his great astonishment—there’s the pink tip of her tongue, peeping out and tasting the winter.

 She shudders, makes a face.

“Brr! And what was that meant to do, hm? — Snow’s cold. It melts. I knew that!” She laughs with her eyes closed, melting _him_ from the inside out.

“Yer wee voice, it’s no geen ye better advice than ya pals,” A delicate blush in her cheeks, the wee burd is coming to life, moving her head and squirming against him, and he has to readjust his arms and tighten his grip not to let her fall. “Fuck thae voice.”

“Uh-huh,” she breathes, the soft sound a white cloud in the cold air.

Her fragility, the gentleness, the softness— it’s man-made magic in a wrap, and shooting right into his veins. He feels the spark, the rush, the pull— and leans in for a kiss.

Belle gasps against his lips.

Her eyes fly open and flick to his, but before he can stop, have her tell him he’s oot of order and to get tae fuck, her arms come about his neck, one hand diving deep into his hair, and she is kissing him back; kissing him tender—then deliciously demanding—her warm tongue searching his mouth, tasting and exploring, and he lets himself drink her in, drown in her, just for a little while.


End file.
